


On the Nature of Daylight

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Adult Language, Angst, Beardy Frank, Bittersweet, Bruises, Cuddling, Emotional Baggage, Failing miserably, Fluff, Fraught Fluff, M/M, Songfic, Trying to Play it Casual, but fluff nonetheless, references to rough sex, sleeping, the morning after, these tags are a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Things look different in the morning.One-shot.





	On the Nature of Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I don’t know how many of you are watching _Castle Rock_ , but last week’s episode broke me, particularly at the end when they used Max Richter’s song “On the Nature of Daylight.” It’s one of my favourite tracks, beautifully melancholic but also hopeful, so tragically hopeful. I haven’t been able to listen to it without ugly crying for the past week. 
> 
> I felt the need to reclaim the song a little. Make it possible for me to hear it without sinking into that heartbreaking whirlpool of emotion where the episode left me. Of course, my thoughts immediately went back to Frank and Matt, despite their being a pretty lateral move in terms of tragedy and heartbreak. 
> 
> There’s a darker fic I could have written, and maybe I will. Maybe I’ll offer this and the other ficlet up as a song study: two stories from the same beautifully brutal song. But not today. Today, I present to you fluff. It’s fraught fluff, but it’s bar none the softest, sweetest fluff that I have ever produced and certainly that I’ve ever conceived for these two.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

On the Nature of Daylight

 

               Frank wakes to the cool glow of sunlight through the curtains. Room’s awash in gray-blue, dulling the gleam of the silk collecting around his waist. He nudges the edge of the blanket down, pulling himself upright. Ain’t right, seeing the sun like this. He should’ve been gone hours ago. Usually is, too. Don’t know why today’s any different.

               He sees his clothes scattered around the bed: pants near the foot, socks crumpled against the baseboards. His shirt’s somewhere in the living room along with his vest, his jacket. Ditched those good and early. Red wouldn’t have it any other way. They make it into the bedroom with anything on above the waist, they’re not working hard enough.

               Looks different, in the morning. The pools of fabric cast thin shadows on the floor. Usually, Frank’s scrambling to find them in the darkness, trying to dodge when Red chucks them his way. The little shit smells his way to them or something, finds ‘em faster than Frank can even in the light.

               Frank casts a glance at the shit in question, finding Red’s back to him. Chest moving so slowly and so deeply there’s no way he’s not asleep. If he moves quiet enough, Frank can still get out before Red notices he spent the whole night.

               He’s about to throw the sheets aside when his eyes return to Red. Looks different in the morning too, Red does: sunlight catches on the dimples of his spinal column. Scars gleam; dawn can’t drain their shine the way it does the silk sheet’s. There are bruises on his ribcage, little clouds of purple blooming in his skin the way blood diffuses in water.

               Frank drops his head into his hand. Scrubs at his eyes, runs his hands over his beard, through his hair. Opens his eyes to get a good look at his own chest, at all the digs Red got on him. They got matching bruises along their sides, across their biceps. Shit, Frank can’t tell the fight from the fucking. Can’t read fingerprints from knuckles, where one type of fun ended and the other began. 

               He glances one more time at Red, tracking his gaze up, blazing a trail to new places, things he doesn’t see in the dark. The neat cut of Red’s hairline, the jut of his collarbone, the softness of his shoulder blades when they’re in repose. Wonder if those arms feel the same in daylight. If those muscles flex, if those hands ball to fists, that mouth twists into a sneer. What does Murdock do when he wakes up next to someone? Cute little choirboy probably rushes off to the kitchen, puts on a pot of coffee, starts making breakfast in bed. Brushes his teeth so those good morning kisses are as sweet as he is.

               Or maybe he never gets the chance. Maybe they all slink off under the cover of darkness. Maybe all Red has is Frank: a fight that turns into a fuck turns into throwing clothes across the room.

               Red shuffles in his sleep like he knows he’s being thought about; Frank puts a hand on his side. Which is dumb, because Red stirs from the touch. He pushes back. Frank has to sidle up next to him to keep him from moving.

               “What time is it?” Red asks blearily. He tugs himself out of Frank’s grasp, spine rounding, his back hunching in defense.  

               “It’s night. Go back to sleep,” Frank says. To prove the point, he eases back down up against Red’s spine, letting the touch cover up whatever nonsense his heart might be saying, whatever leap his respiration might do at the thought of Red going back to sleep, him getting the hell out of here.

               His breath catches on Red’s hair. The bristles spark in the sunlight, some as scarlet as his fucking armour. Frank never noticed before. Never had the chance. The mask, the darkness, it’s the only side of Red he’s ever seen. Only side he’s ever wanted to see.

               ‘Cept now. It’s comfy and quiet, and Frank’s eyes are hanging low. He pulls them open as Red breaks the silence. “Liar.”

               “Fine,” Frank says with a beleaguered sigh. He rolls away, “I’ll go.”  
  
               Red grabs him by the wrist and yanks him right back. “Don’t be a dick.”

               “You’re the one kickin' me outta bed.”  
  
               “You’re the one leaving when the sun comes up.”

               Little late for that. “Told you: it’s night.” Frank’s bite to Red’s earlobe turns into a kiss turns back into a bite, and his arm gets caught under Red’s for the trouble. He tries to sound casual when he says, “Go back to sleep.” Tries to sound like he’s not gonna make a run for it the second Red’s out again.

               Red sighs into his pillow, his grasp soft. Arm loose. Making not a single effort to hold on; anticipating, in fact, the letting go. Frank doesn’t disappoint. He slips his arm free, tucks it between his chest and Red’s back. Between his scars and Red’s scars, his bruises and Red’s bruises.

               Another sigh, followed by an eyeroll: “Look, if you’re gonna go –“  
  
               “Shut up,” Frank hisses. And then, softer, “Go back to sleep. I’ll go in the morning.”  
  
               He listens to the little puffs of breath, each one twisted as if by a smile. Can’t see the sun. Can’t even necessarily feel it. But Red knows. Fuck, he knows it’s there, and he sinks into the pillow. “Good night, Frank.”  
   
              Frank closes his eyes so tight that they’re lying in the dark. “Good night, Red.” But the dawn still finds him, encroaching in his vision. Blackness warming to crimson, the night giving away to a blaze of red, red, red.

               He puts his arm back where it belongs.

* * *

 Happy reading!


End file.
